


On the First Day of Christmas

by Meilan_Firaga



Category: Spy (2015)
Genre: Breaking and Entering, F/M, Fluff and Crack, Ford sucks at the stalking, Stalking, bless him, but he still tries, holiday fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-14
Updated: 2016-12-14
Packaged: 2018-09-08 11:30:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8843035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meilan_Firaga/pseuds/Meilan_Firaga
Summary: Well, Ford's broken in again. And brought...what exactly is that thing? And why?





	

**Author's Note:**

> I have such a love for Ford's absolute insanity.

Susan Cooper took two steps into the kitchen that dominated her Washington D.C. apartment and froze in her tracks. Rick Ford had broken in (again) and was making a mess as he tried to cook dinner, but that wasn’t all that unusual anymore. No, what caught her eye was a pot of strangeness sitting in the middle of her kitchen island. Sighing heavily, she kicked off her heels and dropped her overnight bag to the floor, gaining no small amount of glee from the way Ford jumped and glanced over his shoulder, gripping the frying pan as though he might hurl it in self defense. Dragging her arm up from her side, she locked her eyes to his and pointed at the monstrosity.

“What the hell is that?” she asked with a growl. Ford turned back to the stove in a hurry, but without any hair he couldn’t hide the way the tips of his ears and top of his head turned pink.

“It’s a partridge in a sodding pear tree, Cooper,” he ground out. “Use your fucking eyes.”

Susan closed her eyes, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose. She could almost laugh if he didn’t sound so genuinely grumpy that she wasn’t pleased. “Ford,” she began, “that’s a dead parakeet stapled to a wilting poinsettia.”

Ford sniffed, turning back to the stove and stirring whatever he had in her favorite saucepot with jerky motions. “I made do with what I could get my hands on, love.”

“I’m not your love,” she insisted automatically, moving to sit at the counter near the strange gift offering. She propped her elbows up on the counter and dropped her chin into her hands. “Parakeets and partridges aren’t even in the same family of birds, you know.” He grunted. “Parakeets are a type of parrot.” Something sizzled in the frying pan. “And I think partridges are game birds. Like a pheasant or something.” Whatever he was making actually smelled pretty good. “You know that a poinsettia is a flower and not a tree, right?” 

With a frustrate huff, Ford whirled around to face her, sending the frying pan skittering clear of the burner. He placed his hands against the stove--one of them dangerously close to a burner--and leaned back. “Do you have any idea what I went through to get that little arrangement?” he thundered. “This crazy biddy in a housecoat nearly tore my arm off! Luckily, I know how to avoid that kind of fiasco since I’ve had to sew it back on meself in the past--” Susan snorted, remembering the first time she’d heard that tall tale, “--but I could have easily lost a limb. All to get you the right thing from the bloody song.”

She blinked at him slowly as the wheels in her head turned. “Th-the song?” she stammered. Ford’s face flushed again, and he turned his back to her again. He busied himself with setting the cookware to rights, checking his progress. “Are you trying to give me presents for each of the twelve days of Christmas?” Ford’s shoulders hunched up. His head and ears flushed a deeper shade of red. Mentally, Susan checked the date. December 13th. That meant that Ford logic placed the twelfth day of Christmas at Christmas Eve. At least he was trying. It was actually pretty sweet in a strange kind of way.

Getting back to her feet, Susan shuffled around the island and up next to Ford. The stuff on the stove was chicken alfredo--one of her favorites. Her heart melted just a bit. He may be bat shit crazy, but at least he tried because he actually wanted to do right by her. Well, right in some sort of sense. He also thought he could do right by her if he broke into her apartment to do weird things like re-order her DVD shelf or shampoo the carpet. Cooking dinner was just about the most normal thing he ever tried to do, and it always came at the price of a colossal mess and bad pickup lines. Still, this was one more check in the column of crazy-Rick-Ford items that actually made her smile. She placed her hand against the small of his back, throwing him a wry smile. Before she knew it, he had her wrapped in a tight bear hug, his face buried in her shoulder.

“Aww, there, there big guy,” she cooed, patting his back awkwardly. “It’s kinda sweet in a weird, I might have murdered an innocent bird to make this sort of way.” Ford inhaled deeply, pulled back, and took her face in both of his hands. He gave her what she was sure was supposed to be a romantic sort of look and placed a lingering kiss on her forehead. 

“It’s just what your true love should do,” he assured her as he turned back to the stove. Her brain short circuited, but Ford didn’t miss a beat. “There’s eleven more days of romantic holiday greatness ahead of you, darling.” The corner of Susan’s eye began to twitch. Ford dished out two heaping plates of fettuccine and chicken, then bent to the oven and dragged out what looked to be a perfect loaf of garlic bread. “It’s funny you should mention murdering the bird. You won’t believe how I found the poor thing’s corpse. I’ll tell you all about it while we eat.” He sliced the bread and dropped two large slices onto each plate. Taking a plate in each hand, he faced her with a smile. Susan was still staring at him in shock. “Off you trot, love. I’ve already set the table. I know I’m handsome, but you can stare at this beautiful mug just as easily while we eat.”


End file.
